In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  We will investigate her to see if there are chinks in her armor. Sometimes there are. Eyewitnesses are notably undependable. There can be intrigues—jealousies, resentments, slights, gamesmanship—that color the supposed impartiality of the truth. The blindfolded lady sometimes sneaks a peek. The witness won’t talk to us, but we can learn a lot about her without her cooperation.

  “A month to go,” Joe says, flipping pages on his desk calendar. “These last days are going to fly by like minutes.” He sighs heavily. “The odds are always against us, Jessica, but this one eats it on a stick. Not one damn alibi witness worth a shit, nothing that can help us with reasonable doubt.” He picks up the new material. “And now this.” He crams the pages into his already overstuffed valise—his reading material for tonight. Snapping the case shut, he smiles and shrugs, a what, me worry? gesture of futility. “Whatcha gonna do? You do your best, that’s all you can do. Am I right?”

  “You’re right, Joe.”

  “Don’t lose sleep over this.” He glances at my extended belly, which is swelling more by the day. “You’re sleeping for two.”

  “And eating for four,” I crack. In the past month I’ve had these ravenous cravings, like in the old jokes about expectant mothers. To my shock, they’re true. If I didn’t have stupendous willpower, I’d eat a pint of ice cream every night, scarf a bag of tortilla chips, wolf down two double-doubles from In-N-Out Burger—don’t hold the fries. I succumbed to the god of temptation and had one last week; it was delicious. From now on, I have to avoid those places like the plague.

  We leave the office, take the elevator down to the ground floor, and walk to the parking lot. The sun is still high, the air hazy—as if the sky were covered with brown gauze. I wave goodbye to Joe, get into my car, a laborious feat in itself now, and head for home. I have a ton of material to read through tonight, and I tire more easily, so it’s a struggle. But I have to do it—if I ever start letting things slide, that will be the day I pack it in. I’m tempted sometimes to do that: let this shit go and practice another type of law, where your emotions aren’t engaged, but I’m not ready to do that; not yet.

  I wonder how I’ll feel when this trial is over.

  I’m loaded down with shopping bags. I have just come out of the Whole Foods market on Gayley, in Westwood. I’ve gone organic, an insurance policy against the poisons that I am convinced are inherent in regular food. And it tastes better. I should have made this change earlier, when I was in training. I might have shaved those precious seconds from my marathon time.

  “Jessica?” The voice comes from behind me. I freeze, but my legs shake involuntarily. Slowly, I turn. Jeremy and I stare at each other from a distance of ten feet, like two animals in a zoo, each on our respective side of the bars. It’s the first time we’ve laid eyes on each other since our violent breakup. His nose has healed, but it’s a bit flatter than before, not as refined. That makes me feel good.

  His jaw drops as he takes in my new body. “Jesus. You’re pregnant.”

  Immediately, I’m pissed off. “Like you didn’t know?”

  “I mean …” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his long, swanlike neck. I never noticed the resemblance to Ichabod Crane before, but it’s definitely there.

  “That I’m going to have it? I told you I was.”

  He looks at me with incredulity; or maybe it’s an unwillingness to face reality. “Aren’t you awfully big for how far along you are?”

  Oh, Jeremy, you always say the exact right thing, you schmuck. “Huge. I’m going to have a brontosaurus. It will be in The Guinness Book of World Records.”

  “I didn’t mean …” He’s stammering and backtracking like a schoolboy caught peeking into the girls’ locker room.

  “That I’m not svelte and sexy, the way you like me?” I set my bags down on the sidewalk and spread my arms wide. “Take a look. This is who I am now. A woman who is pregnant …” I pause for dramatic effect. “With your child.”

  He shrivels before my eyes. “Look, Jessica …” His eyes dart back and forth, as if he’s looking for an escape from this nightmare.

  “You look. Look hard. This is what a pregnant woman looks like, Jeremy.”

  People are stopping to watch us, a freak show on the sidewalks of Westwood, Los Angeles, California. Jeremy summons up the courage to face me head-on. “You look beautiful,” he says. “I could never visualize you being pregnant, but you look fantastic.”

  My antagonism melts. “Really?”

  His head bobs up and down. “The most beautiful pregnant woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Where do I go from here? “How are you?” I ask.

  “Okay. Getting along.”

  “Are you still …” I can’t finish my sentence.

  He nods stiffly. “Yes.”

  I bend over and pick up my plastic grocery bags. They feel as if they’re stuffed with bowling balls. “Good luck with her. I hope it works out for you.” I hope you catch the plague, too.

  He takes a baby step toward me. “Can we get together, Jessica? We have to talk.”

  I back away. I can’t let him into my space, I’m too vulnerable. My hormones control me now, not the other way around. “I’m busy. Work, planning for the baby, the rest of my life. Maybe later.” Or maybe never.

  He doesn’t press me further. “I hope we can.”

  “We’ll see.” I heft the bags in my arms. “I have to go.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  He means carrying the groceries to my car, not any help I really need. “No. I can manage.” The way I always do, you weasel.

  “It’s good to see you, Jessica.”

  I don’t reply. He stands in place, not knowing what to do next. Finally he says, “Take care of yourself.”

  Who else will? Certainly not you. “You, too.”

  Another awkward moment; then I turn away from him and walk toward my car. I want to look back to see if he’s still there, but I force myself not to.

  THIRTY

  WE ARE HAVING A skull session, one of the last ones before the trial starts, which is coming at us like a freight train without brakes. Joe and I along with Adrian Pakula, Siobhan Flynn, another lawyer who is our office’s DNA expert, and Tori Higgens, our investigator. We have reviewed the prosecution’s case ad nauseam. There don’t seem to be any surprises. They don’t need any; they have enough evidence to get their conviction without pulling any underhanded bullshit, as they sometimes do when their case is shaky. That the victim’s panties were found in Salazar’s truck is their hole card, but they can also place him close to where and when another of the murders took place. And they have two eyewitnesses: the old man who saw a victim with a man who fit Salazar’s basic description, which by itself would be worthless, but in the mix will have an effect, and most important, their other witness, the woman who saw a victim talking to Salazar the night she was killed. The witness had picked Salazar out of a legitimate lineup. We will have tough sledding trying to challenge that with any success; the police bent over backward to go by the book.

  What we can offer in rebuttal is pathetic: Salazar’s friend Carlos, who will tighten the time frame of one of the killings (but by itself, not tightly enough); the lack of DNA evidence linking Salazar to the evidence; some character witnesses; and Salazar himself. We are not going to have as strong a character-witness presence as in his previous trial—most of them have been scared off by this latest accusation and will not come forward. I don’t blame them. There is a huge difference between speaking up for someone who may have been sandbagged on a charge of transporting stolen television sets and saying a good word for someone who may be a mass murderer. We will not use Salazar’s wife, for the same reasons I didn’t use her in the first trial.

  Putting Salazar on the stand runs the risk of convicting him through his own words and actions. The D.A. will treat him like he’s an Inquisition heretic. But unless a miracle happens, we won’t have a choice. He’ll have to speak in his
own defense. The jurors, along with public opinion, will demand it.

  The purpose of this meeting is to finalize who’s going to do what. We have our game plan. This is one more review to make sure we are all absolutely, positively in synch. Joe is the lead attorney and I’m his second, but I’m going to play a more active role than what is normal for a lawyer of my experience.

  There are three reasons for this. Number one, Joe and Pakula want me to. They feel I’m ready for the big time, and they want me to spread my wings. I’m grateful for their confidence, and I’m not afraid of it. I’ve been in this office for six years—if I’m not prepared for center stage now, I never will be. The second reason is my relationship with Salazar. I defended him successfully once, and the hope is that some of the magic will rub off onto this trial. And he is comfortable with me, which is vital. A client who is uneasy with his lawyer is a bad client. The jury can read the tension in the relationship, and will subconsciously develop negative feelings toward the defendant.

  The third reason I’m going to be taking a prominent role is because of my condition. Juries respond to pregnant women, and am I ever pregnant. My maternal glow will fill the courtroom with a warm bath of light that we hope will shine down beatifically on Roberto Salazar. In particular, the women on the jury will bond with me—it’s the strongest glue in the world, so our task in jury selection will be to seat as many mothers and grandmothers on the panel as we can squeeze in. The danger is that they will sympathize with the murdered women. We are taking the risk that that emotion will be offset by my Madonnaesqe (the Virgin, not the diva) appearance before them, in the flesh.

  The baby inside me grows and grows, and so do I. By the day, the hour, the minute. By the time the trial begins, I will look like Baby Huey in heels. I have bought three new suits and the necessary accessories to fit my changed profile (out of our petty cash stash, Joe insisted on it). I ordered them two sizes bigger than I am today; hopefully, I won’t be any larger, because if I am, they will have to bring me into the courtroom with a construction crane.

  Adrian Pakula, who has seen it all, appreciates the dilemma my pregnancy poses for our opponents. “If I were in their shoes, I would have gone the other way. But they can’t, because the decision has been taken out of their hands, even though they’d deny it,” he declares, with relish. He punctuates this pronouncement with a laugh; one of the few, I suspect, we will have at the prosecution’s expense.

  The “other way” would have been to request a postponement, which is standard in a case of this importance. As I have noted, it usually take years before a death penalty trial takes place. But this is not a usual case. This case is as much political as it is legal; in the real world, more. The state has to bring this case to trial as quickly as possible, while the memories of the killings are still fresh in the public’s mind. Even the most grisly of murders lose their potency to shock and produce anger when they get lost in the fog of time. So to trial we will go.

  We talk for about an hour. No disagreements, we’re locked in. Pakula wraps up the meeting. We’ve all heard this pep talk before, but it bears repeating. “Start positive, and stay positive. Keep your energy up. We know this is not a good case for us, but the jurors don’t. You convince them that we’re confident, and it will rub off. We can win this, but you gotta believe. And one last thing. Do your best, and live with that, no matter what.”

  I believe. I believe in myself and my partners. I believe in cuddly puppy dogs and warm summer rains and chilled margaritas with salt on the rim. But in Roberto Salazar, not so much anymore. But no one will see that. I will do my best. And if that isn’t good enough, I will live with it. I’ve lived with much worse. I sure as shit can live with the outcome of this trial.

  THIRTY-ONE

  DAY ONE OF THE People of the State of California versus Roberto Salazar. The courtroom is standing room only. This is the biggest trial of the year, the legal community’s equivalent of a Hollywood premiere, so opening-day attendance by the media and trial junkies is mandatory. All that’s missing is a B-list celebrity, an omission compensated for by the blanket of grisly publicity that has covered this case for more than a year.

  The jury is brought in and seated. We all rise as the judge is announced, enters, and climbs to the bench; then we sit again at the bailiff’s command—puppets on a string. Judge Hiro Suzuki, an experienced jurist who runs a tight courtroom, gets right to it. “Is the prosecution ready?”

  Harry Loomis, the lead prosecutor, buttons his suit coat as he stands at his table across the aisle from ours. It’s a Brooks Brothers charcoal-gray pinstripe. The tie is Harvard crimson. Old school, like the man wearing it. Seated alongside him are two other lawyers from his office. Younger, snazzier, but lacking his air of authority. These two are the tip of the iceberg; a big staff has been assigned to this case. This is one trial they absolutely cannot afford to lose.

  When they make a movie about Loomis’s life, he’ll be played by Tom Hanks, the most honest, trustworthy man in the world. He reeks of integrity. I’m sure he can be as cutthroat as anyone else—you don’t get to be the top criminal prosecutor in the largest district attorney’s office in the country without breaking some eggs. But you would never have an inkling of that from his demeanor. To the eye he is calm, unflappable, capable, and nice.

  “We are, Your Honor.”

  He sits down. Suzuki turns to us. “Is the defense ready?”

  Both Joe, who buys his suits at Macy’s, always on sale, and I, wearing an expensive Donna Karan maternity dress, stand up. There are two reasons we’re both on our feet. The first is to imprint on the jury, from day one, that we are equals. The second is to remind them, yet again, that I am great with child. From the looks I’m getting, it’s working. Their eyes are not only on our faces, but on my belly, which is sticking out as if I’ve stuffed a prize-winning watermelon under my dress. Some of the women can’t help but smile. That’s a good beginning.

  Joe takes the lead. “We are, Your Honor.”

  We sit down. Suzuki nods at Loomis. “Proceed, Counselor.”

  Loomis takes his place at the podium and faces the jury box. With the self-assurance of a celebrated orchestra conductor, he works without notes.

  “Last year, four women were murdered in this city over a period of seven months. All the murders were committed during the full moon, which is a small window: seventy-two hours. The evidence we have found proves, without a doubt, that they were all killed by the same person. That killer is sitting in the courtroom today. His name is Roberto Salazar.”

  Salazar’s eyes are fixed on a spot on the wall above Judge Suzuki’s head. He does not look at the jurors. Joe and I do. The jurors are staring at us—it’s instinctive, human nature. They are curious, but I don’t see anger or predetermination in their faces. I’ve been in trials that were over before they began. For the moment, at least, this doesn’t seem to be one of them.

  “The accused is on trial in this courtroom for the last of those four murders. But make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen—he committed all of them. The precise way these murders were executed, the specific signature the killer left behind, and the time frame for when these murders took place clearly and unmistakably reveal that they were all the work of one person.”

  Tying all the crimes together, which will ratchet up the fear factor against Salazar, was a battle we fought and lost. Since Salazar is only on trial for one of the murders, we argued that only the evidence relating to the last killing should be allowed.

  Judge Suzuki did not agree. Because the methods and styles of all four killings were so alike, and so unique, he decided that they could be linked together. Not only could be, but should be. As always, so justice can be properly served.

  We didn’t expect he would rule in our favor, but his decision was a kidney punch nonetheless. Four murders carry much, much more emotional and psychological weight than one. You murder one person, you’re a killer. You murder four, you’re a monster.

  “W
e will present evidence to you, ladies and gentlemen,” Loomis continues, “which will show that the accused was seen, by unimpeachable witnesses, at the scene not only of the last murder, but at others.”

  Another battle we fought and lost. Not only will the two eyewitnesses place Salazar at different crime scenes, but Suzuki will allow the prosecution to bring up Salazar’s arrest for the stolen television sets in order to put him at the location of that earlier killing. The arrest itself cannot be cited by them—the judge made it clear that that is off-limits. But the cop who stopped him that night will be allowed to testify as to where and when the encounter took place.

  There will be other battles like these, and we are not going to win any of them. The deck is stacked against us, we knew that going in. We will fight the good fight, but it will be a Sisyphean grind all the way.

  “We will connect DNA evidence directly from the victim to the accused,” Loomis tells the jurors. “DNA evidence that will be accurate, unbiased, irrefutable. Evidence that only the victim’s killer could have had in his possession.”

  In the past decade, DNA has become the new Holy Grail. I believe in DNA; every lawyer I know does, especially defense lawyers, because DNA has gotten hundreds of innocent people out of prison. But I have wondered if it can be manipulated, or more likely, misinterpreted. In this trial, the DNA evidence is going to be the most damning piece of evidence against us, the one thing for which we will have no rebuttal.